


The Diary

by mercurysensei



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 08:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurysensei/pseuds/mercurysensei
Summary: One-sided Atobe/Tezuka; Zaizen/Kenya; Momoshiro/Ryoma; Oshitari Yuushi/DramaAtobe Keigo does not negotiate with terrorists. Not even small ones from Shitenhouji who are rude enough to publish his diary on a trivial blog.





	The Diary

“Ore-sama does not negotiate with terrorists,” said Atobe, his mouth a thin line drawing tighter with every second spent on his phone. “Naa, Kabaji.” 

“Usu,” Kabaji agreed.

“That’s mighty high-minded and all, but what are you going to do about this, Keigo?” Oshitari drawled.

Atobe’s eyes lifted from his phone to glare shards, a thousand tiny icicles to pin Yuushi against deep elderberry walls. “For talking as if that’s some _novelty_ , Yuushi, you may have the privilege of handling this.”

Caught quite off balance, Oshitari blinked and let his locker swing out wider than intended. The sensual pictures posterizing the interior were distracting enough to steer Shishido into the bench. While the capped boy cursed and flailed, Oshitari arched his brows up into his blue locks. “And what, precisely, do you expect me to do about this?”

Atobe closed his phone with finality and turned, quite naked, toward the shower. “You have a cousin at Shitenhouji, don’t you? Solve this, tensai.” And then he disappeared into a rosemary lavender scented cloud behind translucent glass.

Taki peeked his head past Yuushi’s locker. “My older brother might know someone in Osaka who could take care of this,” he offered, sweat damp hair sweeping smoothly over his sharp little smile.

“Thank you, Taki,” Yuushi deflated. He hadn’t truly expected a solution so soon. “But I’m not going to call a hit out on Kenya’s doubles partner.”

While Taki pouted and wandered off, no longer interested in the conversation, Shishido laughed into his sweaty shirt and tossed it into the laundry bin. Unfortunately, Jirou considered the laundry bin his personal sleeping pile. The sleepy man had dropped off into a snooze over the basket mid removing his own clothes, such that any and all additions to the laundry draped over his mostly naked form. Ohtori hovered, apparently torn between plucking up the sweaty garments and letting him sleep. Fortunately, Kabaji rescued him from two impolite options by plucking Jirou up like a doll and herding him off into a shower.

For once ignoring and not fanning the flames of the locker room antics, Oshitari calmly dressed and prodded the tangle of a situation in his mind, pulling here and there to locate a frayed end, a place to start.

 

\--

 

Zaizen’s first mistake was stopping to catch the Pikachu, novelty hat be damned. Oshitari had locked on, and was now beaming with enough wattage to chase all the clouds from the overcast sky. Doubles partner or not, that stupid, chest-swelling smile made him want to clothesline the sprinting speedster. Nobody needed heartburn this early in the morning.

Zaizen didn’t get the opportunity. Oshitari somersaulted past Shitenhouji’s omote-mon and came to a stop in front of Zaizen. Still smiling, the bottle blond caught his breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Good morning!” he said. 

Oshitari opened his mouth to say something else, too, but Zaizen simply said, “No,” and pivoted toward the school.

“But Zaizen!”

Tossing another Poke Ball as he walked to class and ignoring the howls of the students pogoing in after Koharu, Zaizen repeated, “ _no."_  

Shitenhouji eyes followed him throughout the morning. Shitenhouji mouths followed suit, whispering in tandem and giggling. The knowledge that this was his doing and resulted in his skyrocketing blog hits put an extra spring in Zaizen’s step.

Kenya’s head popped out of a bush after first period, “Zaizen!”

Kenya’s upper half wormed through the window and into his second year classroom during lunchtime, causing giggles for a different reason. “Zaizen!”

Zaizen had just about had enough when Kenya’s entire body did an Ina Bauer twirl with a 10 landing. He took a Snapchat, crooked fingers zooming in on Kenya’s panting (and pantworthy) features at the end, and said, “no.”

That face crumpled, drawn down by a big, fat weight that seemed to land on Zaizen’s chest. Fucking pout. Defensively, Zaizen repeated, “No.”

It must have sounded hesitant, because Oshitari followed him until the bell rang and, even then, his homeroom teacher had to shoo the blond out with the attendance book. “They don’t make senpai like they used to,” he muttered under his breath and turned to the correct page in his english textbook. 

By the time Zaizen’s day rolled into tennis practice, he was wondering if this was even worth the likes. Pretending to be fussing with his shirt, he surreptitiously stole a glimpse of his blog page.

_Wow_.

“Do your worst, Oshitari-senpai,” he smirked, which was his second mistake, because the upturn of his lips flipped on the homing beacon that summoned baka pair straight out of hell.

“OOooh, Hikaru-chan, I didn’t think you’d have had that sort of education!” Koharu purred and draped himself over the side of Zaizen’s locker like some spectacularly bald starfish. A curled finger tracing circles on the metal, Koharu fluttered his lashes and added, “Won’t you teach me?”

Yuuji’s hand -- from seemingly nowhere -- ferociously gripped the wooden locker just beside Zaizen’s ear. “ _Ko-ha-ru_ , you cheater, I thought that you loved me!”

Trying and failing to hide behind Zaizen, Koharu protested, “You could never punish me like my baby S, Hika-Chan. Just look at that belittling, tsundere pout,” While Yuuji turned redder and and insisted that he, too, had a belittling tsundere pout, Koharu the human manacle nuzzled Zaizen’s shoulder. Times like this, Zaizen remembered that his goofy leech of a senpai was taller and stronger than him. Depressing. He threw an elbow back into Koharu’s gut and would have refocused his efforts on tugging his practice shirt had he not caught Kenya’s jaw dropped out of the corner of his eye.

“Punish?” he flustered, pink and volleying his stare between Zaizen and baka pair.

“Stop it, Kenya-kun!” Yuuji howled, clinging to Oshitari for comfort. “We both know who is _really_ the cheating S around here.”

“Teehee.”

“It’s not _teehee_ , Koharu” Yuuji protested, and then sighed to Kenya, “why is Koharu so cute, it’s not fair. Damn those sadists to hell, right Kenya?”

Blush abated, Kenya laughed and petted Yuuji. “I dunno. It’s not so bad.”

Oshitari winked at Zaizen. It felt like the heat on his ears melted Koharu right off of him. He put on his shirt more violently than necessary and muttered, “useless senpai” as he elbowed his way out of the changing room.

And went selectively deaf to avoid Koharu’s screams of _“spicy!_ ”

Zaizen wondered if Osamu would entertain a petition to allow headphones at practice.

 

\--

 

**TWO DAYS PREVIOUS**

 

Nobody needed to tell Atobe Keigo that he was amazing, but it certainly didn’t hurt. Some hundred or so students had gathered just for the pleasure of chanting his name. Perfectly average and yet, Shitenhouji, who had journeyed east for decent practice matches, seemed very interested in the demonstration. He supposed that people simply couldn’t help it, where he was concerned. Raising an elegant hand high in the air, he drew his fingers to snap, shutting everyone up with a single motion.

“YEAH YEAH MONKEY MAN!” Shitenhouji’s little redhead clapped and bounced. “ALL RIGHT GOOD SNAP DO IT AGAIN!”

Shutting almost everyone up. Atobe twitched. It seemed that Shitenhouji’s midget had absorbed some bad habits from Seigaku’s. While Atobe made a mental note to call Tezuka and mention the boy’s lack of class and naming sense, his fan base made the unfortunate decision to adopt the baby Tarzan and arm him with pom poms.

The whole redhead situation (it truly seemed that all redheads were a situation) was more noteworthy than the wanna be rocker boy staring at him blandly across the net. Yes, he and Shiraishi had decided to swap future captains in the name of training, but why did he have to put up with this lukewarm, vaguely unimpressed glare. At least his Piyoshi had some fire.

Desperately ignoring Tooyama’s calls for Zaizen to snap his fingers too, Atobe spun his racket and drawled, “all right, boy, which will it be.”

Zaizen blinked and eyed the spinning racket. “Smooth,” he decided, and so it fell. “I’ll stay here.”

Atobe frowned. It was a good decision, as the sun strayed into his face on this side and, most likely, by the time they switched, it would be down far enough for the field to be even.

Of course, that assumed that Zaizen could return enough of Atobe’s serves to make the game last. A big assumption. A shark like smirk split Atobe’s features. “Very good, then.”

Normally when he played an opponent he wished to test and drive higher, Atobe took his time. But he was in no mood. Not when he also had been forced to suffer the indignity of Shitenhouji’s data idiot clinging -- and groping, which was not permissible no matter how strong and supple his buttocks were -- all while monologuing about cheating on _Hikaru_. The bandana idiot hadn’t liked that at all. In fact, he was still shrieking and flailing as the bald one seemed to undress both players on the court with his eyes.

Shitenhouji could fuck right off, friendship handshake with Shiraishi or not.

Atobe started with a Tannhauser that burned through the court, leaving a permanent indent. Zaizen had been useless against it, and frowned as if to say _well that was uncalled for._ To an outsider, he might be right. But Atobe was jagged and ready to cut, elegant fingers poised in front of his face to seek and destroy.

The entire match had been a machine gun against a bow and arrow. Zaizen, despite giving Atobe some noteworthy — even impressive toward the end — volleys, never stood a chance.

“Hmph,” Atobe sauntered victoriously up to the net and offered a private insult with his handshake, “how pathetic -- it looks like Shitenhouji’s matches with Hyoutei won’t even be worth watching next year.”

It was a little unfair. Zaizen fared the same as Hiyoshi would have against him, but Atobe felt vindicated in his bias.

 

\--

 

**PRESENT**

 

Kaidou Kaoru was panicking. The words _Hey Atobe-San_ , wouldn’t have normally caused him any alarm. But because it was Zaizen’s blog and nothing on Zaizen’s blog meant anything good for him, what followed had his phone ringing off the hook and his fingers begging to rip out all of his hair.

_Hey Atobe-san,_ Zaizen wrote. _I found something of yours._

Directly below were snapshots taken of photos that seemed to have been pasted on the inside of a journal. Although Kaidou could guess the identity of the owner, he only cared about the picture in question.

First of all, why did Atobe have Tennis Pro Monthly outtakes of the Seigaku tennis team?

“Ah, Tezuka-buchou is about to change. I called him, too, but I think there was some kind of faulty connection,” Inui had explained, when Kaidou picked up the phone. “I’ll try him again.”

Secondly, _what_ on earth was Momoshiro doing to Echizen in the background? From that particular angle…

...It looked like...

....It couldn’t be that...

...They were... _kissing_? He couldn’t say for sure -- the back of Momoshiro’s thick skull didn’t offer any hints -- but that was most definitely Echizen between the future vice-captain and the locker.

Kaidou leaned back in his desk chair and hissed. His fingers curled into fists and he was so very tempted to start beating his own thighs. Momoshiro’s face was preferable, but, unfortunately, not immediately available. As future captain, it was up to him to figure this out.

Kaidou hadn’t been sure what to expect at tennis practice that morning. Definitely not Momoshiro standing as far away as possible from Echizen while still being on the same courts. The spiky haired loser looked everywhere _except_ the freshman’s general direction, as if pretending that Echizen were some kind of ghost would make Kikumaru stop teasing him about his intentions toward _ochibi_.

Echizen, however, was entirely occupied playing with Tezuka. If either of them had any inkling of what had happened overnight, their volley didn’t reflect it.

Kaidou twitched. He was so _confused._

Oishi placed a warm, supportive hand on his shoulder and, with a face ready to impart some serious leadership wisdom, said, “...I want to say that it gets better.”

“Fshhhh.”

Kikumaru sighed, abandoning Momoshiro in favor of draping himself over Oishi’s back like a cape. “It’s no use. Momo says that nothing happened.”

“We _know_ that nothing happened, Eiji, we were there.”

“Yes nothing happened, but that doesn’t mean _nothing happened_.”

“Aah,” Oishi agreed with a somewhat distraught, thoughtful expression.

Looking from Oishi to Kikumaru, Kaidou hissed in confusion and excused himself to run it off. He had more hope of understanding that idiot Momoshiro than he did their doubles one.

 

\--

 

“So according to Kenya, Zaizen didn’t steal your diary,” Oshitari explained in the Hyoutei clubroom. “He found it beneath the bench.”

Most likely, the diary had tumbled out of Atobe’s bag when Kabaji bent over to pluck up the helpless sleepyhead who often nodded off there.

“It was still property of Ore-sama,” Atobe folded his arms, face dangerously still.

Mukahi snorted. “ _Technically_ , it was property of Monthly Pro Tennis.”

“The photographs were unpublished and I purchased them legally,” Atobe adopted an expression that managed to be both haughty and long-suffering. “Therefore, my property. Is it my fault that reporters who stalk junior high school students aren’t paid very well?”

“Ah, you bribed a stalker magazine for stalker nudes of Seigaku’s captain,” Shishido concluded flatly, not even looking up from the Australian formation how-to posted on the inside of his locker. “Great.”

“ _Purchased_ ,” Atobe emphasized, color rising on his features. “And he isn’t...naked.” Not for lack of trying. Somehow, the image of Tezuka with his shirt off had been randomly corrupted. Atobe hadn’t even noticed whatever juvenile mating ritual was going on in the background.

Oshitari sighed, flipping through his phone when he should be more sympathetic to Atobe’s plight. “The pictures are the least of our worries.” He stepped in close enough for Atobe to smell his aftershave. Atobe busily wondered if Oshitari even had to shave in the first place. But then the tensai pointed to his phone screen to show that heinous blog. Although that brat had posted _again_ , Atobe couldn’t fault his taste. He had the good sense to put up his couture photo shoot with Beat...

And the riveting, six page entry Atobe had made describing his own new haircut (for posterity)...

Okay, _nobody_ else needed to know about the dance lessons he attended with his mother!

The last line of the thing was the worst of it. _Look forward to more material straight from the source, every day at this time until I receive an apology._

 

\--

 

“Is there _nothing_ you would accept, aside from his apology,” Oshitari Kenya whispered loudly as he leaned his weight against Zaizen’s back, forcing the junior into the stretches Shiraishi had assigned. They were back to back, just a few feet away from the rest of the team and their noise.

As Zaizen strived to touch his toes, he rasped, “A hundred million yen.”

Oshitari groaned. “Don’t even joke with that one -- he might take you up on it and you’ll be on the hook for high level bribery. What about like...headphones? Hmm? You have like eight pairs...how nice would it be to..uh, have nine?” Kenya finished, not quite certain about that particular gambit.

“Nope,” Zaizen straightened and pushed his weight against Kenya’s back, prompting him into the stretch. “Atobe-san can either apologize, or take what he dishes.”

“Yeah, the way he beat you was a little...” Oshitari frowned with the memory, unsure how to put it. Nobody expected or wanted Atobe Keigo to go easy on Zaizen, but with the request, Shiraishi had intended something a little more educational than death by firing squad. Even so, posting highly personal stuff didn’t seem like a very sportsmanlike response. It concerned him that while Zaizen had the tendency to be sharp on the court, Oshitari had never seen him take court banter quite so personally.

“It wasn’t that.”

Oshitari paused, partly because it was difficult to talk while folded in half and partly because if he wanted Zaizen to explain, his partner needed at least a few seconds of silence to do so. As he hoped, he soon felt the rumble of Zaizen’s voice against his back.

“He said something after,” he said, somewhat reluctant. “It wasn’t just me he insulted.”

“Oh,” Oshitari said, and quieted thoughtfully. Zaizen was defending the team, and his own pride, the best way he knew how. Even if he didn’t like Zaizen’s particular method, he understood why his usually bribale kouhai wasn’t feeling flexible. “Do you think he’ll really apologize, if you keep this up?”

It was Zaizen’s turn to bend. Oshitari leaned over him, listening to his staggered breath until he spoke, “I kind of doubt it. But even if he doesn’t, he’s still dealt a blow that I can live with.”

 

\--

 

_Before the end, Tezuka Kunimitsu, you will be awed. If not by me and the tennis I wield, then by us. The ferocity, the sheer force of will, in our matches has no rival and it will be recognized._

_You feel this, too. I know it. I saw it in your eyes during the match and the way you relied on me afterward. I cannot help but help you, it seems, time and time again._

_My regret gives cause to endure, strive, and evolve._

_You are the one, Tezuka. We will meet again on the courts. And this time, when I hold your hand victorious and thrilling, it will be because of me and you -- our dazzling tennis -- not because of any exploited injury._

_Until then, I wonder how you would feel about a museum visit? Or perhaps a tasting menu at Takeda Sushi?_

“Stop there,” Atobe ordered, halting Oshitari’s flowery read. “A letter of challenge isn’t to be read in that tone of voice.” This one in particular wasn’t meant to be read at all.

Oshitari stopped reading over Shishido’s shoulder to mourn, “You never offer to take me to Takeda sushi.”

“No, he took Hiyoshi,” Jirou gossiped, unexpectedly popping up from under a pile of discarded towels. After watching him collapse back into slumber, both Oshitari and Taki whirled around on Atobe, as though betrayed.

Atobe rolled his eyes. “And you wonder why.”

“Did the fish roe surrender to his ancestors?”

“How many times did he declare that he would surpass you, the waiter, and the toro?”

“Did you walk him back to his door like a proper gentleman, or wait in the car?”

That last question had been too much for Hiyoshi, who saw fit to wallop both Taki and Oshitari with a dirty towel. “Why did I even bother reaching out to Zaizen,” he muttered.

Taki grinned, “Oh, and what did boyfriend number four say, Piyo-chan?”

“How do you think he determines the rank?” Shishido snorted.

“Out of the baby captains?” Mukahi cackled. “By most to least likely to punch you in the face.”

“Rikkai and Seigaku must be tied for first.”

Shaking his head, Shishido pondered, “I don’t know, that Fudoumine kid has a temper.”

“Shut _up_ .” Blushing furiously, Hiyoshi crossed his arms. “I’m not going to tell you _now_.”

“Ah, that means he wouldn’t tell you anything,” Atobe concluded dismissively.

As Atobe had already seen past his gambit to hold something over the senpai, the honest Hiyoshi didn’t deny it. “...He only wants what he said he wanted.”

“Well,” Atobe huffed, still flustered. “He is _not_ going to get an apology. One demands respect on the court, not on the internet.”

No one disagreed, but Ohtori said, quite innocently, “You know. I think I’d rather be punched in the face than have all my love letters posted on the internet.”

 “ _Letter of challenge_ ,” Atobe corrected, making the second year jump with his vehemence.

 

—

 

“After what he posted, you can’t seriously think that Atobe will apologize,” Yuushi said, draped over his duvet cover and twirling the cord of his novelty landline around his finger.

Kenya’s sigh came through the receiver. His cousin wasn’t one for subtlety. “I don’t think Hikaru expects him to.”

“So he’ll take a bribe?”

“I didn’t say that.” Kenya said, troubled. “Atobe-san upset him. Hikaru didn’t even tell me what he said.”

“So your little porcupine is out for blood?”

“Maybe — HEY — don’t call him a little porcupine.”

“Oh? But _yours_ is fine?” Oshitari crossed his ankles in the air. Now this was gossip more captivating than Atobe’s eternal obsession with Tezuka. Kenya sputtered, and Yuushi assumed that, by now, he was redder than Sakaki after Hiyoshi’s disastrous music practical. Even putting that boy in the back with the triangle had only produced a reluctant and ill-timed _ding_. “Fret not, dear Ken-Ken. I’ll come not between you and your grumpy bunny.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kenya grumbled, seemingly worn out of patience on nicknames. “As I was saying...I’m not gonna undermine him on this, Yuushi. We’re kind of...touched? That he’s probably defending the team in his own way. Koharu might be a little too touched…”

With a tragic sound, Yuushi rolled over onto his back. He couldn’t force Kenya to give up Zaizen, no, but he could, at the very least, get some information. “That’s too bad. I was kind of hoping to find a tennis racket worthy of a captain.”

Kenya laughed. “Well, that wouldn’t have worked anyway. Unless it’s like, headphones -- god, Yuushi, I swear he has at least eight different pairs -- or, I don’t know, London stuff.”

“London stuff?” Yuushi raised a brow, voice at the kind of lilt that would prompt Kenya to continue.

Full of enthusiasm, Kenya elaborated, “Oh, the bands that he likes are British. I got him a Union Jack phone case for his birthday and he loved it!”

Yuushi wondered how much of that was because of Union Jack and how much of it was the inability to say no to that cute face of his cousin’s. Regardless, Kenya had given him some very valuable information. “You’re so thoughtful, Kenya,” he swooned over the phone. “I’m in love with you.”

To that, Kenya -- by now familiar with his cousin’s odd humor -- only laughed. “If you want to confess to me, I want lots of chocolate.”

 

\--

 

“Our buchou is becoming a mythical creature,” Kikumaru sighed. The acrobatic player poured bonelessly on the bench beside Oishi to watch Tezuka volley with Inui. Whenever the data man tried to bring up Atobe’s diary entry, Tezuka phantom activated to send the ball veering off so far that Inui had no choice but to go fetch it. After all, the first years had been strategically assigned laps.

“He’s going to hurt his arm…” Oishi fretted, hands wringing as he waited to interfere. “‘Dazzling tennis,’ ‘you are the one’...Honestly, not even Tezuka could pretend to ignore that post.”

Fuji smiled. It wasn’t pleasant at all. “I should make a trip to Hyoutei.”

“ _No_ ,” said Oishi and Kawamura in tandem.

Kikumaru, a beat behind, offered a, “No?”

“Tezuka can handle Atobe,” Oishi said, clearly questioning his own words. He looked like he might combust with worry just watching Tezuka play Inui. “I’m more concerned about…”

Momoshiro, as if on cue, took a ball to the face from Horio of all people, just because he couldn’t bring himself to look even vaguely in the direction of Echizen, who had run by just behind the other first year.

At this rate, they weren’t even going to have any regulars next year. That was enough for Kaidou, who, as future captain, was duty bound to do something about it. And that something was stomping off to give Momoshiro a piece off his mind. Had he _really_ made a pass at Echizen? If he hadn’t, why avoid the freshman? If he had, _why_ was he shirking his responsibility? Determined to find out, he grabbed Momo by the shirt and dragged him kicking and screaming from his pathetic match.

“OI MAMUSHI! What’s wrong with you?! Your bandana too tight or something?!” Momo shoved at Kaidou, finally breaking away from him when they reached the water fountain.

“ _Fsshhhh,”_ Kaidou emphasized angrily, not hesitating to get back up in Momoshiro’s face. “What’s wrong with _me_?” his fist knit in the future vice-captain’s practice jersey. “You’re the one ruining everything!”

“Ruining EVERYTHING?!” Momo exaggerated, shoving his big stupid forehead down on Kaidou’s. “And somehow the sun is still shining, we’re practicing tennis, no one is failing any classes, Inui didn’t bring any juice --”

“DON’T JINX IT!”

“ --YEAH YEAH -- SOMEHOW _EVERYTHING_ IS RUINED BECAUSE OF ME! Thanks for that Mamushi, yes, thank you. Like things haven’t been _ridiculous_ enough.”

“Because of you,” Kaidou released Momo’s collar, giving him a shove back.

Momo stumbled, but didn’t fall. This time, he was the one moving forward on Kaidou; he had awakened the bull, and not the sulking shadow of his future vice-captain that had besieged them the past week. Voice deep and combative, he said, “I wasn’t the one who posted that crap!”

Unimpressed, Kaidou glowered. “Yeah -- and that was Zaizen, not Echizen.”

Momoshiro hesitated. “Yeah, he seems to be doing fine -- yup -- just _fine_ without me!”

“SO YOU DID DO SOMETHING!” if Momoshiro fucked up the team for next year, no one would ever find his body.

“I did -- I didn’t. I _didn’t_ ,” conflicted, Momoshiro pulled on the ends of his locks. “I…”

“Did you or didn’t you?”

“I _didn’t_ ,” Momoshiro repeated. “I just didn’t want more pictures taken!”

 “What -- “ Kaidou’s frown etched impossibly deeper into his face. It was stupid to even imagine that Momoshiro would abandon a younger player just because of a picture. “Why?!”

“I just didn’t, okay.”

“If you didn’t do anything and aren’t going to do anything then what would they even take a picture of --”

“I WANTED TO DO SOMETHING. OKAY.” Momoshiro rounded on Kaidou. “I _wanted_ to do -- something. But the cameras and people and Tachibana’s sister…”

“YOU’RE CHEATING ON TACHIBANA’S SISTER WITH ECHIZEN?!”

“ _No_ \--” Momoshiro flailed his arms around, as if the wild gestures could make him perfectly clear. “You’re such an idiot -- definitely an idiot.”

Kaidou growled, now quite unsure why he thought he had a better shot of understanding Momoshiro than doubles one. Nobody made sense. “ _You’re_ the idiot. Leaving Echizen to deal with this because of a picture that shows nothing and pictures that don’t exist.”

“You don’t understand,” Momoshiro balled his fist, like he wanted to use it on Kaidou. “You just don’t.”

“Yeah -- and I don’t want to,” Kaidou shoved past Momoshiro brutally, ignoring the rough push back. “ _Pathetic_.”

 

—

 

“I could try,” Shiraishi said. “But I won’t. And even if I did, honestly, I’ve only ever made Zaizen do what I want by accident or bribery.”

In retrospect, Atobe shouldn’t have expected Shiraishi to be helpful. Shitenhouji were a bunch of mysterious hippies with questionable standards at the best of times. Atobe wanted to fault him for it, but — even though Shitenhouji’s future captain was doing something potentially illegal — if the situation were reversed, he would only have encouraging words to say to Hiyoshi.

He wondered idly if Hiyoshi would start a blog.

Probably not.

Atobe paused, elegant hand poised to pour a second glass of Da-Hong Bao curative tea. That was it. He didn’t need _Hiyoshi_ to start a blog. He sat down quickly -- not even noticing that the priceless tea had steeped too long -- and opened his iPad.

“You know what they say,” he drawled to himself, well pleased. “If you can’t beat them, beat them at their own game.”

_The Exhaustive, Zealous, and Ultimate Keigo Atobe Saga_

_Written by Atobe Keigo_

_With exclusive insights from Atobe Keigo_

 

_All of you can #beblessed today. You should be pleased to have a legitimate reason beyond your trite holiday Starbucks cup (they would have been better off with my submission -- Beat is so fetching in Christmas red). Ore-sama has chosen to move his previously private, paper diary onto this official blog._

 

Atobe flexed his fingertips. Now to steal that brat’s blog hits with mere sentences.

 

_Tezuka Kunimitsu -- I assume that you have been kept apprised of the situation and my circumstances, which have been so rudely revealed. I admire you as a rival. Our tennis can accomplish so much on the court, and I wish to continue surpassing the useless and conceited laws of gravity and physics in your company._

 

_If you feel the same way, join me on at the Sendagaya courts for a match, and then afterward for a celebratory feast. You will not regret this, Tezuka._

 

_-Atobe Keigo,_ Cpt. of Hyoutei Tennis Club, this year’s Vanity Fair International Treasure

“I would like to see him try and ignore that. Naa, Kabaji.”

…

…

 

There was no response. He turned around to see Kabaji decorating cookies with Michael, his butler.

“Usu,” he said belatedly. Atobe nodded with approval and rewarded himself with the most prized sugar cookie among the pile of meticulously decorated confections.

And then a second, just while waiting for Tezuka to respond.

A third, but surely Tezuka would comment any minute now.

Two hours later, Atobe had a stomach ache and was quite put off of his dinner.

“Maybe he hasn’t seen it,” Kabaji suggested, as they did their homework.

Atobe grumbled, “nonsense. Of course he’s seen it. Because that data man has seen it. That punk from Shitehouji has seen it. Seigaku’s Fuji posted an ad for Kawamura sushi.”

“Usu.”

“Yes, you’re right. I remember that it was more than adequate, but we would never have gotten any privacy there.”

“Usu.”

“Truly,” Atobe agreed, hand clawing at his stomach as if he could will the sugar from his system. “Would you fetch me some medication?”

“Constipation?” Kabaji asked as he got up.

Atobe nodded and put his head down on the third year Latin textbook. The Metamorphoses would be the death of him. “You’re the best, Kabaji.”

“Usu.”

 

-

 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Echizen said bluntly, training those absolutely unfair eyes up on Momoshiro; they were a thousand times more brutal than Mamushi’s fist.

“It was no homo, Echizen…” Momo started weakly, hand in front of him like he was trying to ward off a wild raccoon.

Undeterred, Echizen said, “No, it was.”

Momoshiro froze. His hand dropped. “What?”

“It _was_ homo, Momo-senpai,” Echizen stepped right up to Momo, nearly toe to toe with the taller boy. Their breath heated the air between their height difference and Momoshiro wondered if Echizen had grown. Yes, he definitely had. The freshman whose head had only reached his shoulders was now tickling the underside of his chin with the brim of his hat.

“...what,” Momo repeated, going quite scarlet.

Echizen smirked and, to make his intentions dataman-approved -- more than one hundred percent clear -- went on his toes and kissed him. His lips were chapped, but sweet for all the grape soda that he drank.

Only when he straightened up, blinking owlishly, did he realize that Echizen hadn’t gone on his toes at all. Momo inspected his Seigaku jersey. “You punk,” He stammered. “You stretched out my collar.

Grin stretching from ear to ear, Echizen tipped his hat and said, “Mada mada dane” as he walked off into the sunset.

Momoshiro blinked. After two beats, he ran after the freshman who was way cockier than he had any right to be. “You are so not getting away with that!” he called, powering his longer legs to catch up. “Revenge match -- whoever can eat more burgers wins!”

“You’re paying,” Echizen peered up at him. Somehow it was different than every other time they had walked side by side.

“Yeah, yeah, what else is new,” he said, because it was also the same.

Echizen hopped on the back of his bike and Momoshiro decided that he didn’t care whoever saw them riding and whispering together through the narrow streets around Seigaku, or saw them doing anything else for that matter.

 

\--

 

“This isn’t a bribe,” Kenya said for the sixth time. The first time, when Kenya presented the tickets, had been more than enough. He wasn’t sure why the blond insisted on bringing it up the day before, on the train ride over, in line for the venue, waiting for merchandise, and now, pressed entirely too close in the standing room of the auditorium.

“What is it, then?” Zaizen asked, since he had stopped the posts entirely without bribes. When Atobe had started posting his own ridiculous material, fewer Atobe fans were clicking over to his blog. Besides, he was sick of writing about Atobe Keigo when so many more interesting subjects all but begged for his keyboard.

Caught off guard, Kenya swayed for a bit and chewed his lip. So transparent. “A...date.”

Zaizen’s sparse brows rose up into his hair. Kenya flushed vividly, flailing enough to piss off the people around them in the brimming concert pit.

“A man date. A doubles date. An, uh…” Kenya scratched the back of his head and laughed nervously, his dark eyes pleading for help.

Rolling his eyes, Zaizen said, “don’t have a system meltdown, I get it.”

Kenya paused, hand hovering over his head. “Do you?” he asked, expression full of hope.

“Mmhm. You’re _ridiculous_ ,” Zaizen concluded, too busy selecting modes for his camera to watch Kenya’s face fall. “Come here and pose for me — I do need something to post, after all.

Zaizen expected his doubles partner to come obediently into view. But he didn’t. He was talking to come girl in a sparkling gold tube top. Part of him twinged with some unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling, and the other part wanted to find out if the shirt was like Shiraishi’s arm weight.

Kenya spared him the dilemma of the ages. He brought the girl over with a smile and said, “she’s going to take our picture together.”

Before Zaizen could protest handing over personal property, Kenya had put his phone in the girl’s hand. Damn speedsters. Zaizen couldn’t say why, but when Kenya wriggled close and put his arm around him for the photo, he was inclined to smile and forgive him.

 

\--

 

The sun set on what had been a wonderfully productive day for Tezuka Kunimitsu. He had passed the morning playing shogi with his grandfather, got some training in before lunch, and bundled up for a vigorous hike with his father. Belly still warm from his mother’s sukiyaki, Tezuka retired to his room for study. When he pulled out his phone for the calculator function, he noted his many missed calls and messages.

He read Oishi’s messages. He deleted Inui’s. He frowned at Atobe’s.

 

_Tezuka -- I hope that you are well. Would you care for a match at the Sendagaya indoor courts on Saturday afternoon? I would like to book us a tasting menu after, to indulge in Takeda Sushi’s new seasonal options and catch up._

_Warm regards,_

_Atobe Keigo_

 

Still frowning, he checked his planner and typed back.

 

_Atobe. Sendagaya 16.30. I prefer to dine at home after a shower._ \--TK

 

Now that that was settled, Tezuka felt ready to take on his homework. Then, if he still felt adventurous, he could read a bit of Beowulf before bed.

 

**Omake**

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=25030a8)


End file.
